Eighty Eight
by fadeinonme
Summary: The story of the end...their end. Told through the eyes of Roger and Mark, a friendship piece. Inspired oddly enough by a psalm. Rated for language.
1. Heal me, I'm Heartsick

Author's Notes: Rated for language. Chapters are named after the songs that inspired them. This will probably be the only time I write notes, so I hope you enjoy and please review!

"**From my youth I have been afflicted and close to death; I have suffered your terrors and am in despair." **

–Psalm 88:15

**Chapter 1: Heal me, I'm Heartsick**

Sometimes the days were too long…but more often they were too short. Live for every moment; make every moment count so that when you looked back on your life you weren't ashamed of what you did and who you were. That's what Mimi taught him.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

But she had died a long time ago. Months…almost a year. It still hurt to think of her, to think of her smile. About the way her dark eyes danced with her and the way she taught him to live again. It still hurt to think about her. So he didn't.

_1, 2, 3, 4 _

Roger strummed at the cold guitar in his hands trying not to think about her or April or Collins or Angel. He tried not to think about joining them soon.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

Roger felt the beat within him and played.

Every day he felt weaker. It's a terrifying thing… feeling yourself die. On some level, he rejoiced at the thought of joining Mimi and his friends, of getting that final release… like a breath of fresh air. On another, he hated leaving Mark alone.

"Fuck…I can't win either way…" He muttered, fingers continued moving effortlessly up and down the guitar.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

Mimi, Angel, Collins...had all lived their lives to the fullest every damn day…every moment. But he... had wasted so much time being depressed, wallowing in self hatred for the situation he was in. He used to blame April, but now he only blamed himself.

And still he wasted every day… wishing he had more days to waste.

_1, 2, 3, 4 _

Mark entered the loft then, wiping snow off his worn jacket. He looked at Roger, and attempted to smile. It was small and forced, but it was there. "Hey."

Roger only nodded in response. _…_words are highly over rated.

The filmmaker's blue eyes clouded over with understanding. 'Oh this is one of your quiet days. Okay,' they seemed to be saying, mocking Roger's silence. _…stupid eyes!_ Mark turned towards his bedroom, camera in hand.

_Well, fuck him if he thinks he knows me so well!_

"Hey, Mark."

_Haha, take that eyes!_

Mark turned, his eyes wide with surprise. "…yes?"

Oh shit…there's more? He had to say something? _Shit._ Say something!

"Where were you?"

_Stupid…stupid question_. He knew where Mark had gone…to visit graves. Mark's face hardened, trying to hide any emotion…but his blue eyes gave him away as they clouded with painful memories. Roger could see the hurt in that blue. It must not have been a good visit.

"…Out" Mark answered at last, surprising Roger with the vacant sound of his voice.

"Oh…"

_1, 2, 3, 4_

"It's cold in here. Are you sure you don't want a… blanket or tea or something?"

Roger made a face at the mention of tea. "No...I like it cold."

"Yeah, I know…" Mark pushed his glasses up delicately on his nose, "but you could get sick…"

"Mark." Roger tried to suppress a growl. "I _like _it when it's cold."

The subject should've dropped then.

"But Rodge…"

"Look I like the cold. I want to be fucking cold, okay? Why the hell can't you leave it at that? Let me enjoy the cold while I still fucking can." Roger let the anger fall out of his voice with his last words.

Mark said nothing, blue eyes waiting. As though they knew what would come next. _Stupid eyes…_

Roger sighed and broke the delicate silence that had descended on the loft. "…I'm going to die anyway, so I don't give a shit about…about blankets or tea."

It wasn't angry, wasn't desperate. It just was. He'd come to say that a lot lately, it was his way of accepting death. Kind of his way of fighting back. _I know I'm going to die soon. It's here... you can't fucking surprise me anymore AIDs. You can't take anything else from me._

But he shouldn't say it. He shouldn't say it because of the look in Mark's eyes, the look of abandonment and terror that Roger knew he tried so desperately to hide. But the filmmaker couldn't hide it from Roger, nor could he hide the backwards step he took every time the words left Roger's mouth…as though he had been pushed.

"Don't… I…" This time Mark couldn't hide the weakness in his voice, "Fuck. Roger do you have to say that?"

Roger shrugged so that Mark wouldn't see him shudder. Only Mark's desperate voice could bring him back to the reality of his own fears. To what his death meant. The end…

_I can't do this…I can't…I can't… _

And Roger had to struggle to keep breathing, because suddenly it hurt like hell.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

His hands shook as he cradled his guitar, but he kept playing. He couldn't stop playing. _Don't think_. _Don't fucking think for a second_.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

Something warm was placed around his shoulders, and he turned to see Mark putting a blanket on him. Roger let out a frustrated sigh, but couldn't stop a smile from crossing his face.

"You stubborn little shit…"

Mark grinned and bowed to Roger, "Learned from the best."

_1, 2, 3-_

The filmmaker moved to the kitchen area getting out two cups and putting them on the counter. Roger stopped playing as he watched Mark in confusion.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"…Making us tea."

"What? Why?" Roger made another face to enforce his disgust. "You know I hate that shit, but you still make it for me all the time."

"And you still drink it every time I do." Mark replied giving him a pointed look.

"Well, yea, only cause… you made it and I didn't want to…" Roger shook his head, "But why?"

"Because…I, well…I have to do something."

Roger nodded, understanding, as he turned his focus back to the guitar in his hands, back to the melody that his fingers plucked away to.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

Sometimes the days are too long, sometimes they're not long enough.

Roger played to his internal beat, and felt himself get weaker, paler. He was slipping away day by day by day by day… and soon there'd be nothing left of who he was. Nobody left but…

Mark gave him his tea, and retreated to the table to fiddle with his camera. Roger took a drink, and tried not to make a face at the taste. But of course Mark was watching him, and laughed at his sorry attempt. Roger just smirked. If only he could hold on to moments like these forever

_1, 2, 3, 4_

It's a terrifying thing, feeling yourself die…

Roger knew his time was coming soon. They had little food, no heat, no money for doctor or hospital bills… and Roger was dying, but frankly at that moment while he took another gulp and cursed Mark's disgusting tea… he didn't give a shit.


	2. Iris

"**Your wrath has swept over me; your terrors have destroyed me."**

**-Psalm 88:16**

**Chapter 2: Iris**

In the living room, Mark could hear Roger playing his guitar. _1, 2, 3… 4 _From the sounds of it, he was fiddling over some melody or another that he'd been working on all day. It was much slower now than Mark remembered.

Sleep would be a good idea… Mark hadn't been able to sleep in days. A few hours here and there, but nothing substantial. It was all because he refused to close his eyes, he was too afraid of what he'd see.

After Collins died, he went to bed the night of his funeral and saw him dying the moment he let his eyes fall shut. He woke shaking and overcome with the grief that the image produced, but that night no matter what he did he saw Collins every time he shut his eyes. The next night it was Mimi, the night after that it was Angel, and then April.

It was hard knowing that Roger, Maureen, Joanne, and him were the only ones left alive. Not that he saw much of the girls these days.

It hurt too much to be in a family that was missing four members. They lost touch.

Part of the reason…No… The only reason he was able to come to grips with what he saw in the dark was Roger. Mark thought about what happened that night often, whenever he felt himself drifting to images of his friends dying instead of them laughing he thought about that night.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Collins! No! I'm sorry… I'm so sorry! Please! I have to help him! Someone has to help him!" Mark tossed and turned between the thin covers, screaming and clawing at the air helplessly.

"Mark! Mark wake up! Wake up, man, it's just a dream!"

The filmmaker opened tired blue eyes to meet a pair of concerned dark green ones. Roger's hands were on his shoulders, probably from trying to shake him awake.

"Wha-? What?"

"You were having a nightmare or something… I heard screaming and came in to see what was wrong…"

"Oh, well…thanks." Mark said, as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Roger sat next to him, their legs barely touching. _This…is…awkward. _Mark stared at the floor, and Roger shifted next to him.

"…do you want to talk about it?"

Mark shook his head, and Roger answered the shake with a hard sigh, one hand going to his head. _Good job!_ _What if Roger needs to talk? Maybe be a little receptive to someone else's needs here!_

Mark echoed the sigh, "Are… you okay?"

"Fuck…Mark!" Roger wheeled up from his hand so fast Mark almost fell off the bed.

"What? What did I do?"

"You just had a fucking nightmare! And I know it's not the first one, I know there've been others I'm right next door, I can _hear_ you! You haven't been sleeping and you're asking _me_ if _I'm_ okay?"

"No!" Mark protested, then bit his lip, "Well…yes, but…"

"But _I'm _HIV positive so it matters more whether I'm okay or not?"

"Yes! It does!"

"Mark you _idiot_. No it doesn't! I'll fucking decide how much I matter or don't matter okay? Now shut up about me and my HIV positive shit and tell me what the hell you've been going through!"

"I…" Mark sighed…no escaping this one. "I can't sleep because… because every time I close my eyes I see…them. I see…I see Collins and Angel and Mimi and… April. Every night since… since Collins' funeral."

Those dark green eyes watched him carefully, not daring to look away because they knew Mark didn't open up like this easily. _Stupid eyes…_

Drawing in a shaky breath, he continued, "They're always dying…. They're always in pain…and I can't help, I can't do anything. I feel so fucking helpless and I'm watching these people that I love die…and I know that it's going to tear... it's going to tear another piece of me apart and leave me empty and I can't do anything…"

Mark was shaking, his hand went to his forehead and he couldn't help but feel all together ashamed at his release of emotion in front of Roger. Best friend or not it made him feel vulnerable and weak…_damn it_. His lack of sleep nearly deteriorated all his defenses. Roger's relatively strong hand met his thin shoulder, gripping it tightly.

"I can't…I can't detach from this. I tried, but I can't…" Mark hated the defeat, the sorrow in his own voice.

"Don't." Roger said "I run, you detach…and it never works out. We end up wasting months over stupid shit that never really mattered to begin with. Face it. Face what you're seeing."

Mark looked at him desperately, wonderful idea if he had one fucking clue… "How?"

"The dying memories aren't the only ones you have of them. When you close your eyes…try to think of the good times y'know. We had a lot of those too…"

With that, the rocker pulled him into a quick embrace, ruffled the short blond hair and walked to the door where he stopped mid-step turning around to look at Mark.

"Right… after Mimi died I saw her every night dying in my dreams… I couldn't sleep….it hurt too much… One night when all I could see every time I closed my eyes was her last breath, I thought about the night we met… her smile, the moonlight in her hair, that candle she kept blowing out…" He laughed a little, but he was obviously struggling to hold back his grief, "I've dreamt of that meeting every night since..."

Mark let go of the breath he'd been holding, "Thank you."

Shrugging, Roger smiled and walked away. Mark fell back in his bed, and for the first time in weeks he welcomed the darkness without fear.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The slam of Roger's door startled Mark out of his memories. He knew Roger was not mad…it was just his way of shutting doors. Mark silently thanked him again for helping him find sleep, well… but then that all changed a few days ago when upon closing his eyes he'd seen… Roger… _dying…_ He'd bolted around in his bed and thrown his head under the pillows to suppress the terrified noise that escaped his throat.

Coughing erupted from next door, harsh, wheezing coughs. And Mark's chest tightened with worry and dread. It felt like his ribs would rear back and crush his heart…and for a moment Mark didn't think he would mind. As the coughing quieted down to nothing, Mark stood silently, hands shaking.

Mark got a glass of water from the kitchen…

It took him three attempts.

His hand shook so badly, the water kept spilling over the edge and all over the floor. More coughing erupted, and Mark froze unable to move for fear he'd some how ruin something. As the coughing slowed, he approached the door, knocked twice, and opened.

"Do you…do you want some water?"

There was such a pause of silence then that Mark had to suppress the urge to run in and make sure his best friend was alive and breathing.

"Yea." Roger's voice finally rasped out.

_Shit…oh shit… oh shit…he's sick…he's sick….he…_

"Mark?"

_Water!_ Mark rushed the glass over to Roger who took it and drank in short sips. The filmmaker watched, worried, images of Roger dying flooding his head till he couldn't think or breath or... Roger looked up from his water.

"What?"

Mark bit his lip. Focus on breathing and on formulating words. Not on Roger sweating in a bed from a temperature too high, struggling for every breath…

"Mark…" Roger set the cup on the floor, "You're startin to scare the shit out of me."

"Sorry…" He winced. "Are you… okay?"

"I'm fine." Roger said in a voice that said clearly to Mark he wanted the subject to be dropped.

Mark didn't like dropping subjects. "No you're not."

"Fine, I'm fucking dying is that what you wanted to hear?"

_The terror within him would eat him alive._

"Roger, don't say that! Just don't…say that!"

"Why not Mark? Why shouldn't I say it?" Roger shot back, "It's the truth! I'm going to die soon and there's _nothing _anyone can do about it! You need to accept it!"

This was _not_ happening… Roger Davis was not telling him to accept this… This was not happening.

_I have to go…_

Mark's whole body shook, but he managed to convince his legs to run and his arms to slam the door behind him. And then the water all over the floor managed to convince his feet that he shouldn't be running, and the filmmaker fell with a heavy thud.

Moments later, Roger's door opened and the worried, but raspy voice of the rocker called out to him, "Mark? Mark, are you okay? Mark…what the hell are you doing on the floor?"

_I like the floor…the floor isn't going to die on me… it's always been there, always will be…_

Two shaky hands and arms, much weaker than they were only months ago, pulled Mark up and into a chair. If Mark hadn't lost so much weight recently, they wouldn't have been able to do shit…

"Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Mark opened his eyes and looked at Roger hovering over him with three fingers in the air.

"I'm fine…fine…" He mumbled, gripping his head which suddenly felt very dizzy.

"Are you sure? You still haven't answered the fingers question."

"Shuddup about the fingers!"

"Is it because you can't do it? Huh? Is that why you want me to shut up about them?"

"Three! You have _three _fingers up! Okay!" Mark said at last, and he heard Roger sit on the couch with a loud squeak.

"Look…" The raspy voice began and Mark knew it'd be trouble. "I'm sorry…about y'know, being angry with you."

_But not sorry for what you said, no, because you meant what you said… You meant that you're going to die soon and that I need to accept it._

Roger sighed, "But I meant what I said. And I just…"

"Please…" Mark felt his eyes sting…burn almost with tears that threatened to ruin him… _stupid eyes_, "Please don't do this now. I can't…I can't handle this tonight."

Silence. Thank all things good in the world for silence… Roger shifted in his seat, and suddenly pulled out his guitar. Maybe he'd had it with him the whole time and Mark didn't even notice… The rocker started to play that same melody from before…

"You look like you haven't been sleeping…again."

Mark nodded.

"More nightmares?"

He nodded again.

Roger played slower, weak hands holding the guitar, caressing its strings…

_1, 2, 3_

_1, 2, 3_


	3. Movin On

"**All day long they surround me like a flood; they have completely engulfed me"**

**-Psalm 88:17**

**Chapter 3: Movin' On**

_1, 2, 3_

Roger held the guitar, weak fingers playing out that same old tune. If only he had words for it, but he just couldn't think of any. The music expressed how he felt without lyrics. _Words are highly over rated. _

He couldn't play for long periods of time anymore. He got too tired. _How fucking embarrassing_… too tired to play guitar, to pluck strings in a constant beat.

_1, 2, 3_

Every day that beat got slower and his hands grew weaker. Deterioration was not a fun process. Roger hadn't dared to look in the mirror for days. It's a terrifying thing, feeling yourself die. He'd be screwed if he saw it too.

"Roger's getting sicker everyday, but he refuses to stay in bed and I don't know-"

_What the hell?_

Mark had somehow managed to enter the loft stealthily, and now he was narrating to that damned camera…

"He doesn't listen to anything I have to say, I mean I try to be helpful but he's just-"

"Mark, I can hear you, y'know."

"Oh." Roger could hear the blush in Mark's voice, as the filmmaker set his camera down. "Well that's some irony for you…"

"…what?" Roger was only half listening as he turned his focus back to the guitar, though his energy to play had been severely depleted.

_1, 2, 3_

"Y'know…I said you don't listen and then you were all I can hear you. Listen..hear.. uh…" Mark trailed off when Roger didn't respond, "Never mind it…it wasn't…yeah."

Roger sighed, he couldn't play anymore.

"Are you okay? Do you need some tea or a blanket or soup or anything?"

_Not this again…_

"I'm _fine._ I'm… just gonna lie down for a little while s'all." Roger ran a pale hand through his sweaty hair. "Oh and no fucking tea, okay?"

Mark's blue eyes were exploding with worry; it made Roger feel nauseous. As if he didn't have enough feelings to deal with… _stupid eyes._ Roger stood slowly, guitar still in hand. On second thought, just… leave the fender on the couch. His legs were shaking. _What the hell?_

Mark looked like he wanted to approach, to help.

_Shit! think of something…funny. Something so he'll leave it alone. _

But there was nothing funny to say about not being able to stand.

_Just let me make it to my bed… I can't be weak. I don't do that. _He took a few steps towards his door, and his legs gave out under him. He collapsed on to the floor.

Terrified, frustrated laughter escaped from his pale, chapped lips, because he didn't know how to brush this off. This wouldn't be ignored any longer, and he couldn't deal with it on his own, because now that Mark had seen it… now that Mark had seen _this_…

The laughter turned into a cough that had him sprawled out on the floor gasping for breath, a terrified Mark watching, frozen.

_God, here it comes..._

The filmmaker helped him sit up when the coughs had subsided, "Roger… you need to go to the hospital."

"No!"

"Yes!" Mark sighed, "Roger, I'm not fighting you on this one. You can't stand, you can't walk! I'm not going to just sit back and let you…"

"Die?"

Mark stood to get the phone, but with all his remaining strength, Roger latched onto Mark's wrist, "_Don't! _Mark, I only want one thing for the rest of the time I've got left… to die in my own loft…my home, and if it's the last thing I ever ask of you, _don't _take me to a fucking hospital. Don't, Mark please…please…"

He hated begging. He was Roger 'I-don't-take-shit' Davis…or he used to be. Now he was just Roger 'one-weak-son-of-a-bitch' Davis… lying on the floor pleading…

Mark was staring at the wall, "But Roger, they could help you get better… I mean you might not be… y'know…"

"I _am_. Mark. I _am_. I can _feel_ it… I've seen three of my friends die from this disease… I think I'd know more than any _fucking_ doctor. You know it too…" Roger kept a tight grip on Mark's wrist. "_Please_… it's the only thing I'm going to ask from you. Just this one thing…this one thing… before I go."

Mark never took his eyes from the faded white wall, a sharp intake of breath…"All right."

"Thank you." Roger whispered, as a thin arm wrapped around his back.

Mark wasn't very strong, but together they managed to get Roger into his bed and under the covers. _Never remembered covers feeling so heavy before…_

A glass of cool water pressed against his hot, sweating forehead. _Shit_, he couldn't stop shaking…

He opened his eyes to Mark holding the glass delicately over his head. And for the first time in weeks Roger really saw Mark. He was skinnier than Roger, which was terrifying. There were bags under his eyes from nights without sleeping, and looking at his hand as the glass hovered just below his lips…Roger could see that their skin matched in its shade of pale.

Mark was shaking too…

Roger _wasn't _dying alone… Mark was going with him. They were dying together. _Fuck._ He couldn't do this… he couldn't handle _this_…

"Mark…Mark…" Roger called out, desperately, grabbing on to his arm.

"Roger…?" Mark's blue eyes screamed their concern, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Promise me you'll live. Promise _me_ that you'll keep on living and just keep on going making your films and..." God, he was suffocating! _Drowning_.. "Just keep on damnit! Eat, sleep, _breath_ don't let me destroy you too! Don't let me destroy you too, Marky, I couldn't handle _that_. I can't die knowing that you… that you…"

"I can't!" Mark whispered hoarsely as he wrenched his arm from Roger's grasp. "You have _no_ right to ask me to keep on living when I'm the _only one left_! It's too much! I can't do it… I don't _want _to do it!"

"But Mark… you _have_ to."

"No, I don't…" He choked. "If I want to let go and give in…I can… I don't have to do _shit_. Without you, all of this means nothing! There _is _nothing!"

"Don't say that…" He put a hand on his sweating temple, desperately trying to massage the ache in his head away.

Mark shifted nervously, "God, Roger…you're my best friend. You're the only person who ever understood me. And I'm _losing_ you."

Roger sighed, as much as they tried to brush this off, to avoid it, here it was… There's no escape from death, you can't run far enough and detaching wasn't going to make it easier. _Fuck_. He watched Mark close his eyes and swallow deeply, fighting for control.

"If I could stop this…I would. I'd give anything to…"

"Yeah..me too."

It hurt to look into those blue eyes laced with heartache, but it hurt more to look away.

"Y'know, screw women." The filmmaker laughed brokenly, "I'd give up ever being in love again, to live the rest of my life with you in this fucking loft."

The rocker smiled, "So would I…"

Roger tried to suppress his next coughing fit, but failed miserably. That pale slender hand held his arm tightly for support.

"I'm sorry…" Roger rasped. "I'm sorry for being such a fuck up."

"Don't… you're not…"

Roger could see Mark struggling. The whole world seemed to be breaking down, crumbling around them in pieces. _Their _whole world. The end…

"Mark, come here…"

Setting the glass down, Mark crawled into bed next to him. Roger's thin, pale arms went around Mark's stomach and they leaned into each other. It meant nothing and everything to them. He could feel Mark shaking within his embrace… crying. Roger closed his eyes, resting his head on Mark's.

They didn't need to say anything.

_Words are highly over rated._

In his head, Roger could hear that melody. He imagined his fingers plucking away and he imagined Mimi dancing to that tune, smiling, laughing, and kissing him.

_1, 2_

_1, 2_

His hands were wet with sweat and tears.


	4. Without You

A/n: I have to be honest, I'm really nervous about posting this, because it is different than the first chapters, it was the hardest to write, and I got very emotionally involved while writing which is weird for me. This is the last chapter, I originally planned to make it four chapters long and I've stuck with that for the sake of the story… I never expected to get such a positive reaction from so many people. I appreciate the reviews more than I could ever express in words, thank you for sticking with me and I hope the last chapter does not disappoint.

"**You have taken my companions and loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend." **

**-Psalm 88:18**

**Chapter 4: Without You**

"Zoom in on the bed…on Roger… well, I mean…. I guess it's not really Roger anymore… just his body. A dead body. That's all…."

_Pale sweaty hand gripping pale sweaty hand._

"I called Joanne and Maureen yesterday, but they weren't there. I left them a message…I think I said, he's dying…and then hung up…"

_It hurt to hold on to that hand, nails pressing into skin, bones almost cracking… but it hurt more to let go._

"I've got to stop…blinking so much."

_Harsh, wheezing coughs that stifled, that smothered, that_

He turned the camera handle, methodically, tilting down to a small bowl of soup on the floor.

_I can't eat anymore, Mark. I can't…it takes too much energy. And no way in fucking hell am I going to let you feed me! I'll spit it back in your face! Do you hear me?_

_Yeah…_

_You eat it, Mark…_

"Zoom in on cold soup…cold…tomato soup. It's red, well no, sort of orange…I guess. But it's cold anyway and wasting away below the man who wasted away…"

_Eat the fucking soup Mark._

The camera panned left to discarded film reels, barely hidden under the bed.

_Let's watch old film strips, Mark, it'd be fun...it'd be…it'd be something to do. Y'know?_

_Yeah I know._

His eyes were blurry, not with tears, but with the need to blink.

_Rodge, I could…I could move the projector in here… we never had to go out there. You didn't have to prove anything!_

_Forget it._

_It's not a problem…I mean it won't take much to-_

_I said, forget it._

The camera focused on one of Roger's hands, as though expecting it to move, to twitch back to life. But this wasn't a movie…no happy endings here.

_It's not gonna be like in the movies y'know. People in the movies, they die… and in their last breaths they get to make their last confessions, tell the people they care about that they love them and they'll be watching over them. I won't be…able to do that, y'know this is real fucking life._

_Yea I know Rodge…I remember with April…with Angel…with Mimi…with Collins. I remember with all of them._

_In the movies they make it look so beautiful when people die. They find this peace and this look comes over their face like they're happy…they're happy to be gone, but I can't… I might not… It won't be like that…_

_I know._

_I remember with Mimi, she looked like she was… in so much pain. Her face..she was frowning still. She couldn't talk or even see me anymore through the pain. Just fucking died like that…She died crying …and I can't promise that I won't…_

_It's okay Rodge…if you cry when you die… it's okay. I'll understand._

_A harsh laugh, laced in coughs_

_Real rockers, like me… don't cry._

He felt weak…on the verge of collapse, but he refused… Not yet. Not _here_.

Mark stumbled out of the room, setting the camera down, as he made his way to the bathroom. _So sick._ He flung himself over the toilet, hurling stomach acid into the basin.

_Sweating, shaking…convulsing on the bed with sickness. Bile spread across a white pillow case._

_I can't do anything I can't do anything I can't do_

_Dying…he's dying. And oh God so much pain. In those eyes. In his eyes._

_Grip on to his sweat drenched arms, be strong for him. Don't cry for him. Detach if you have to but don't fucking cry._

_Mark! Please… Mimi…someone please, it hurts! It hurts, fuck…it hurts… I can't see… I can't… _

_The wheezing coughs stopped the heartbreaking wails of pain._

_Hold on to him. Don't let go. Grip on to his hand, so he has something to hold on to… something to push the rest of his strength into holding on to... Give him something!_

_And the dying man before him was crying… the rocker hadn't cried since Collins' funeral, but he was crying now._

_It was the end…_

_He was crying and weeping, yelling and losing all his strength…and it was his end._

_Hold on to his hand, even though it's not holding on to you anymore._

_Hold on to something…_

Mark pulled off his clothes; the darkness that had just flooded his vision did not discourage him from taking a shower. _Disgusting_… he felt so disgusting. Like he'd never get the smell of death off of him, the smell of Roger…

_Roger? Roger, wake up. I need you…I can't do this. Roger…please, please wake up…wake up! Open your stupid eyes, your fucking stupid green eyes and tell me to fuck off tell me I need to accept that in a week you'll be dead, but not now! Not now! Roger! Roger!_

He turned the hot water up so high it was burning his skin, turning it red. His legs lost their strength and he collapsed in the tub…scolding water spraying his back, steam rising around him.

_Oh God… oh God…_

_Hours later he stumbled away from the hand, away from the body, and went for the camera, his only remaining friend._

_Oh God…_

Blue eyes focused on the water flowing down the drain, but he couldn't stop the memories from flooding back into his head.

_Hey Mark when I… y'know...go, you're not gonna go all fuckin hermit on the world are you?_

_What?_

_Like stay in the loft and not leave for…months?_

_Oh like you did?_

_Fuck you._

…

_Okay...yea, like I did. You're not gonna do that are you?_

_No I guess…not._

_Well what are you gonna do?_

_I dunno…I try not to think about it._

_Don't do that either._

_Don't do what?_

_Y'know…not think about it. Detach. It's not good for you._

_Thank you, Mr. Run-away._

_I'm trying to be serious, Mark._

_Well there's a first time for everything._

…

_Ow!_

_Aw, poor Marky did the pillow kick your ass too hard._

_Fuck you._

_But really, Mark…don't detach. I mean it…._

_What am I supposed to do?_

_Face it. Y'know…like the nightmares. Face it._

_I don't know if I'll be able to do that…_

_Yes you will… eventually._

_Yea, maybe when I know I'm going to die soon…_

The water was freezing… from fire to ice in five minutes. Or maybe he'd been lying there longer… The shower spit sharp icicles on his back, his shivers had progressed to convulsions on the tub floor, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

He heard screaming in the other room.

Maureen had found Roger…

He hadn't even heard her come into the loft…

_Maureen asked about you and me once… asked if we'd ever been gay together or if our relationship was strictly platonic…_

_Hah, typical Maureen. What'd ya tell her?_

_I told her that we weren't gay together…but we weren't really platonic either…I don't know…I couldn't really describe it…_

The bathroom door was flung open. Another scream, as warm hands turned off the water and warm hands grabbed his freezing skin, wrapping him in a towel. Mutters of being sorry, not getting the phone call till a couple hours ago…

_Nah, I know what you mean… I mean best friends, lovers, room mates… they all seem too fucking stereotypical...too boxed up. Like labels, y'know…that's not us at all. _

_Yea…words are highly over rated._

_Roger smiled, Yea…they really fucking are._

"Mark, are you okay?"

Joanne? His eyes strained to see through the fog the steam had created on his glasses. Two blurry figures were standing over him…next to him?

_Oh screw this shit…_

Mark trembled in the warm blankets that were tossed over him, and he felt heavy, "I think I'm gonna sleep now…"

_Stupid eyes_

_What?_

_Your eyes…I hate them. They're all blue and they give all your fucking emotions away._

_So?_

_Soooo, they make me feel guilty when I'm mean to you._

_Poor baby._

_Shuddup._

…_I hate your eyes too._

_Really?_

_Yea..they're all green. And they show when you're really hurting or scared or-_

_Hey! I'm Roger 'sex god' Davis. I fear nothing._

_Hah, that's a laugh._

_Yea, I know I get scared sometimes too._

_No I meant the sex god part._

_  
I should kick your ass for saying that…but I'm a merciful sex god. I pardon you._

"Shh…Mark, it's okay. Everything's fine…Everything will be okay."

And he knew that everything was not okay, but he didn't want to say it. He couldn't bring himself to formulate those words.

If he could die now…he'd be happy.

If he could die now…

_I get scared sometimes … scared of what'll happen to me after you're…_

_Yea, Mark, I know… that scares me too._


End file.
